Of Burns and Butter
by asteristar
Summary: She's never been grateful to an oven before. And now she always will be. BB Oneshot Part 3 of Of Booth and Brennan
1. Brennan

Of Burns and Butter

A/N: In this story, I use one of the lines from another story of mine. So don't accuse me of plagiarism. :D This is the third part of my series, Of Booth and Brennan. Two more to go. If you have any ideas that you'd like me to use, send me an email.

* * *

She runs over the list in her head – lettuce, tomatoes, leeks, and pasta. Not her usual list, to be sure, but one just as important as a list of bones or fractures. She's cooking dinner for _him _tonight, and while she doesn't mind, she can't figure out exactly how it turned out that way. All she can remember is that he was complaining over his lack of food, and that in a burst of unprecedented friendliness, she invited him over. Now, she's rushing around the house at a frantic pace trying to get everything ready before he arrives. She's not nervous, or anything. Seely Booth has never made her nervous, and he never will.

Okay, so maybe 'never' isn't really the best word to use. She's a little nervous. Actually, 'agitated' would be a better word. It wounds more like a word an anthropologist would say, and it makes her sound less like a teenage girl. Her mind is caught up in this debate of words, and she fails to properly calculate the distance between her hand and the burner. Her hand connects and hot, blinding pain rushes through her. Her mouth opens to yell but she makes no sound. She pulls away quickly, and swears under her breath. There is an angry red ring circling her palm, seared into her skin. She sinks down onto a kitchen chair, tucking one leg up under her. She glares at the offending mark and sighs. Perfect. Just perfect.

Half an hour goes by, and she's still sitting there. The burn is still prominent, and has caused her hand to swell slightly, making her feel lopsided and clumsy. A loud knock on her door barely startles her, and she responds absently, telling who ever it is to come in.

It's Booth, his face twisted into a frown. He steps in, closing the door behind him and hanging up his coat. Still dressed in a suit from his workday, he looks stiff and formal, yet it's Booth, and so he's entirely something else. At ease. Casual. Angry as hell at her.

"Bones, why'd you leave your door unlocked? And why didn't you check to make sure it was me? God, Bones, you don't think. I know you may not realize it, but you've made some enemies with those cases of yours."

"Ours," she corrects, still distracted. Enemies? She thinks he's being a little melodramatic. There's a tense pause while he stares at her, while she stares at her hand.

"What's up with you?" he asks, breaking the tension. She shrugs, and he laughs derisively. "Yeah right, Bones." Taking a seat across from her, he grabs her hand to get her attention. She can't help a wince, and his look switches from demanding to concerned. She blushes lightly, feeling flattered by his attentive worry. Her blush intensified as he closely examines her burn. It's gone unattended for long enough now that she knows it will scar. He traces the red ring carefully, and she welcomes the pain as it jolts through her.

"Bones," he says quietly, "got any butter?" She looks at him quizzically, and he gestures towards her burn. She frowns. Butter doesn't do anything for burns. It's a well-known fact that butter only makes burns worse, and she tells him so. He scoffs at this, only inciting more anger from her. They finally reach a compromise and he runs her hand under cold water with the gentle treatment he would give to a child. Somehow, she can't find a reason to resent it.

"Thank you," she murmurs when he finishes.

"Want to tell me what happened, Bones?" he asks, and his voice is so kind it makes her want to weep. She's not sure why – she's never been very emotional – but all she knows is that Booth brings out something in her that is vulnerable and bittersweet. More sweet than bitter, actually.

She sighs and shifts slightly on her chair, her hand still enclosed in his large rough ones. She's comfortable right now, and is reluctant to say anything that could ruin it. "Well," she begins slowly, "I was making dinner for us when I got distracted and I sort of pressed my hand on the burner."

"Ouch," he says sympathetically. One of his hands leaves hers to rub her back comfortingly. She can't help but smile, and she suddenly realizes how close their faces are. She can feel herself losing control and drags herself back from the edge she's approaching by kicking herself. Discreetly, of course, so he can't see.

She starts to get up and continue making dinner, but he gets up faster than her and puts a hand on each of her shoulders, keeping her in her chair.

"No," he tells her firmly. "You stay here. I am finishing this dinner, you are eating it, and then I'm checking on your burn. Got it?" His voice is serious, the tone he takes with her when she's pestering him for a gun. She nods and rolls her eyes. He grins cheekily back at her and she laughs under her breath.

The dinner takes a short while to finish, and she discovers that she likes watching him cook. He keeps her entertained with FBI anecdotes and witty replies to any comments she makes. He's long since discarded his suit jacket and tie, and the sleeves to his shirt are rolled up to about halfway up his forearms. She admires the way he moves around her kitchen with a familiar ease. For some reason, he seems to know where everything in her kitchen is, and she's not complaining. He brings their plates to the table, and as he realizes that she's having trouble holding the utensils, he comes around behind her to help her with her food. She feels like a little kid, but no little kid would be feeling chills because of a man's arms on either side of her. She could get used to this.

When their plates are finally clear, they sit there talking. The swelling in her hand has gone down and it rests on the table near to his. Somewhere during their conversation, he takes it in his and she can feel his thumb tracing the faint red scar. She wants to say something, to take what they have and push it a little farther along, but she won't risk something good without the promise of something better.

But she doesn't have to risk it, because he does it for her. He laces his fingers through hers and lifts her hand towards her, brushing her knuckles against his lips. She freezes, completely unprepared for the sensations flooding her system. She wonders why it had to be him that makes her feel this way, but at the same time, knows that it could never be anyone else.

He sees it in her and squeezes her hand reassuringly. She's happy that she doesn't have to say anything to him, but she knows that sometime, sometime soon, she's going to have to say it, if only for herself. But for now, she's content to let it lie, something unusual.

They sit there in silence for a little while, her eyes focused on the table. Every so often she glances over at him and he smiles widely at her. She knows that even when she looks away, he's watching her, and she revels in being the center of attention. She couldn't be happier, and that's a statement she's never ever had reason to think, let alone say, before.

He gets up suddenly, pulling her with him by her hand. He pulls her towards the door grabbing both their coats on the way out. She asks him where they're going, but he won't say. She all but growls with frustration and he laughs at her as she gets in the car and he closes the door behind her. He gets in and starts driving somewhere, but she doesn't recognize the route he's taking.

The car slows down after a while, and they park by the side of the road. They're near a beautiful vista, and she's surprised at Booth for being so cliché.

"Booth?" she asks, confusedly. He just smiles and she allows herself to be ushered out of the car. He pulls her towards the vista, and she gasps. Washington DC is spread out below her and the lights are dizzying. Her breath catches in her throat as she feels Booth come around to stand behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. She feels his cheek press up against hers and can only think of one thing. She can only think of him.

She turns around in his arms and rests her head on his chest, looping her arms around his neck. She can feel his heart speed up and is both scared and excited that she does that to him. She's always thought that she'd be able to resist any guy who brought her to a place like this, but apparently, Booth is not just any guy.

His hands slide to her hips as she leans back so she can see his face, and there's a self-satisfied look on his face that she longs to slap off, but at the same time it makes her want to kiss him. He beats her to it, and presses his lips gently to hers. It's not the way she pictured their first kiss happening, not at all, but it's amazingly wonderful and completely perfect.

They pull away at the same time and she's never felt as whole as she does now. Her eyes meet his, blue searching brown, and she's finally satisfied with what she sees – a love as deep as her own. She turns around in his arms and takes in the view, smiling as his arms tighten around her waist. She can still feel the burn on her hand, and she wonders that a burner and an angry red ring can cause so much joy.

She's never been grateful to a oven before.


	2. Booth

Of Burns and Butter

A/N: Here it is, the Booth POV of the "Of Burns and Butter" events. Hope you enjoy it. :D

* * *

He sits in the car, staring up at her house. He's been sitting there, frozen in his position, for the last ten minutes. And since he's half and hour early, he knows he's got thirty more. This is a bit of a shock to him, this dinner thing they're doing. It's not like her to invite him, and it's not like him to accept to an evening with a squint. Especially a squint like her. 

He's not sure what he means by that, though, because of all the squints, it's her he understands. She's the one he watches, the one he teases. It's never made much sense to him, so he doesn't expect it to now. All he knows is that he has a lot of time on his hands, and while analyzing is basically all she does, he's not up for it.

The radio seems like a good idea. He flips it on, going from station to station quickly. Each song seems to gate on his ears and he shuts it off, exasperated. His fingers are tapping an ever-quickening rhythm on the steering wheel and he frowns at his reflection in the side mirror of his car. Now is not the time to be nervous. He almost laughs, face twisting into a wry expression. Now is not the time? Hell, with her, it's always the time.

Half an hour flashes by, and before he knows it, he's at her front door with his hand poised to knock. Here goes nothing. His knock seems unnaturally loud in the silence of the night and he jerks back from the door, startled. He hears her voice beckon him in from inside the house, and he enters, an irrational anger building in him at her carelessness. She's sitting at the table, and from his doorway vantage point, he has a detailed view of her profile. She's examining something on her hand – fingernails, probably. She is a girl, after all. He hangs up his coat politely, yet his expression is anything but.

"Bones, why'd you leave your door unlocked? And why didn't you check to make sure it was me? God, Bones, you don't think. I know you may not realize it, but you've made some enemies with those cases of yours."

He's being too harsh and he knows it. It's not such a big deal, just an unlocked door. But he's admitted to himself by now that to him, she is everything, and that when it comes to keeping her safe, nothing else matters. He waits for a bitingly sarcastic reply, but never hears one.

"Ours," she corrects softly, still examining her hand. Delight jolts through him, filling him with euphoria. Ours. She said ours. He can't decide what to say at first, but decides on something safely off topic.

"What's up with you?" he asks, referring to her slightly absentminded state. He's jumped down her throat because of an unlocked door, called her Bones twice, been overdramatic once, and has yet to be berated for being egotistical and arrogant. Her shrug does little to satisfy his curiosity. "Yeah right, Bones," he says, taking a seat across from her. She's transparent to him, something he thanks God for every day. It's made life so much easier, for both of them.

She's not listening to him and he grabs her hand, hoping it will grab her attention as well. She winces and he's immediately contrite, his fingers going from rough to gentle in a second. He turns her hand over, closely inspecting the ring that circles her palm. It's a bad burn, one that has gone untended for a while. It's angry and swollen and he flinches inwardly as he traces it with his thumb. He tries to remember what you're supposed to do about burns, and one word flashes to his mind.

"Bones," he begins quietly, "got any butter?"

He can tell she's confused, and he's not sure why he thought of butter, so he gestures top her hand and she frowns. Uh oh. Here comes the hurricane.

She begins a long lecture on the treatment of burns and other heat related injuries, and he tunes most of it out with practiced ease. He merely watches her, face barely remaining impassive as she informs him of his ignorance. Every word she says brings him closer to laughter – she's funny when she's angry. She sounds so serious, but this is an oven burn they're talking about, not the Great Fire of London. He waits patiently. It's only a matter of time before she takes a breath, and that's when he'll jump in.

She pauses, and he takes it as an opportunity to admit partial defeat. A compromise is struck, and he's careful to be gentle as he runs her hand under cold water. Her face twists with distaste and he smiles apologetically.

"Thank you," she tells him when he finishes. He shoots her a surprised glance, pleased that she doesn't find it a show of vulnerability to thank him.

He wants to see more of this side of her, and since this issue seems to bring up that side, he delves a little deeper. "Want to tell me what happened, Bones?" he asks gently, trying his best to remind her that he cares. Trying desperately to let her know that he cares more than she could ever understand.

His eyes focus on her face as she sighs quietly and his smiles as he realizes that he's still holding her hand in both of his. He feels comfortable and happy and he wants things to go farther, just to see if this can get any better.

"Well," she tells him, "I was making dinner for us when I got distracted and I sort of pressed my hand on the burner." His heart flutters. She had been making dinner. For them. He could get used to that.

He realizes that it's his turn to say something. "Ouch," he says in his attempt to sympathize, and he mentally kicks himself for his tactlessness. Ouch? What kind of comfort is that? But she doesn't seem to mind, for their faces are close and she's staring him in the eyes. There's an abandon in her expression that he loves, but she seems to realize just how close they are and moves away discreetly. He's not hurt – she's just scared, and in all honesty, he is too.

She gets up to continue her cooking, and he can tell she's trying to run. But her seat at the table seems to make her more open to something happening, so he rises quickly and pushes her firmly back down onto her chair.

"No," he says sternly. "You stay here. I am finishing this dinner, you are eating it and then I'm checking on your burn. Got it?" He keeps his face serious and his tone reprimanding, waiting for her consent. She gives it with a roll of her eyes, and he returns the favor with a cheeky grin that has her laughing, if quietly.

He surprises himself with the way he seems to know her kitchen, and goes through the motions of cooking with practiced ease. She's making a type of chicken that he's been cooking since the age of twelve, and it leaves him able to entertain her as he goes through the motions with practiced ease. There are countless stories he hasn't told her yet, and he uses this opportunity to regale her with them, always being sure that they didn't reflect too badly on him. Somewhere during the process, he discards his suit jacket and tie, and rolls up his sleeves. When the dinner is finally done, he places a plate in front of her and watches with amusement as she struggles with the fork. He comes around behind her and helps her with cutting her food as he would Parker. She doesn't seem to mind, and he's flattered that she's letting him this close to her.

He clears their plates and returns, sitting across from her, reveling in the familiarity and comfort they share together. He glances at her hand occasionally, just to make sure she's okay, and it seems the swelling has gone down. He takes it gently in one of his, thumb tracing the faint red circle. Some might consider it a blemish on otherwise perfect skin, but he sees it as something that marks her as his. Arrogant and selfish, he knows, but he can't help but go all alpha male when it comes to her.

She's quiet, and he can see the fear in her face, subtle traces lingering in her eyes. She's afraid to be the one who takes the step, so he does it for her. He laces their fingers together, smiling encouragingly as he lift her knuckles to his lips. His eyes focus on hers, and his heart soars as her eyes widen in shock and something else. Happiness. And he'd thought he'd seen it all. He squeezes her hand and her gaze shifts from his face to their hands, fingers woven together and interlocked tightly.

He lets the silence rest between them, eyes focused on her face. He doesn't want to miss anything, any reaction that might give him a glimpse into what she's feeling. Sometimes, she looks away from the table and meets his eyes, and he sees something in her that he's seen in the mirror for a long time. She loves him. She loves him. She. Loves. Him.

He is no longer content in this quiet world they've created. He wants more. He wants all of her, not just the glances she's willing to give him. He gets up suddenly and pulls her towards the door, grabbing both their jackets as they exit. She's confused and keeps asking him where they're going, but he won't say. He wants to surprise her, and laughs as she grits her teeth in frustration. He helps her into the car, only one destination in mind.

When they finally get there, she is utterly confused. The vista they're at is one he'd found his first day in DC. He had told himself in high school that he'd never bring a girl to a vista and hope to win her heart, but with Bones, no previous promises apply. He's willing to try anything.

"Booth?" she asks uncertainly, and he just gets out of the car, ushering her towards the view that awaits her. It's just as beautiful as he remembers it, and she seems to think so too, judging by the slight gasp he hears. She's rendered motionless, and he takes her stillness as an opportunity to wrap his arms around her waist from behind, pressing his cheek to her own. She, however, doesn't seem to be content there, and turns in his embrace, leaning her head against his chest.

She leans back to see his face and his hands slide to her hips. He can't help but grin smugly and she frowns, but her eyes hold a hint of amusement, and something else. Longing. He's had firsthand experience with that, and he's knows it's not much fun. So he takes it upon himself to end her yearning, and gently presses his lips to her. She responds quickly, but before things can get out of control, he breaks away and feels her do the same.

Their eyes meet, and there are no words for what he's feeling. There will never be any words to describe his elation at the utter wholeness that appears on her face. So he doesn't try to explain it, simply allows her to turn back to the view. He tightens his arms around her waist, and grins into her hair as she relaxes into him.

He's never been grateful to an oven before.

**_fin_**


End file.
